State of Grace

It happened on August 13, 1983. (My goodness, it’s been quite a long time ago now.) The unbelievable, unthinkable words were penetrating my clouded brain. “Mr. Arnold, I’m sorry, you are under arrest for driving under the influence of intoxicants. Would you turn around, please, place your hands on top of the vehicle, and spread your legs? You have the right to remain silent…”

With these words (as best as I remember them), I started down a path I wouldn’t have believed. The journey took me into a small-town police station and court room, a court-appointed alcohol evaluator’s office, an alcohol and drug education program, and a treatment group every Tuesday evening for months. Along the way I shed a lot of tears and took a very hard look at the way I’d been living.

That night, in Junction City, Oregon, as I was starting on my way home to Corvallis after an evening at the Scandinavian Festival, I flunked the field sobriety test in spectacular fashion. Although, at the time, I was in the process of obtaining my third college degree (a master’s degree in counseling), I found it impossible to recite the alphabet. Walking a straight line was out of the question. As I rode to the police station, handcuffed, alone in the back of the police car, what was happening didn’t seem real. I was, after all, quite intoxicated. Then, sitting in an obscure corner of that tiny station-house, I waited patiently for the sergeant to prepare the breathalyzer machine. I became confused when explained my rights about taking the test. I asked for them to be repeated. When I understood that I would lose my license automatically if I didn’t submit to the procedure, I agreed.

The results were impressive. (At least I was impressed.) I blew a blood-alcohol level of 0.19%, almost twice the statutory limit of 0.10% that was considered evidence of intoxication at the time.

“I’m releasing you on your own recognizance tonight, Mr. Arnold…”

Ok, so at least I don’t have to spend the night in jail, I thought. And I won’t have to come up with bail money in the middle of the night. As I stepped out into the cool, early morning air, I sat down on the sidewalk in front of the police station…

and promptly started sobbing.

Geez, how did I get into this mess? (I never intended any of this, you know.)

I had started drinking when I was in high school. In the small town in northern Wisconsin where I grew up, it was a pretty “in” thing to do, at least with my crowd. And during my marriage, which lasted the span of my twenties, I entered deeper into the world of chemical coping. To treat the problem I had with chronic tension headaches, I took Valium every day for over seven years. The doctors I consulted advised this route as a means of treating my affliction—and I had trusted them. In my late twenties, just about the time that I was deciding that I could and would end my marriage, my headaches improved and I was able to eliminate my need for the drug.

I thought.

My life as a perpetually-partying, single male was quite a contrast to the life I had had as a neurotic, withdrawn, Valium-dependent married person. I went back to the drinking that I had given up during the years of Valium involvement. (I had heeded the warnings about the combined effects of Valium and alcohol; the last thing my headaches needed was alcohol to magnify their intensity.) Alcohol and socializing went hand in hand during the first few years of my new single life, as they had earlier during my high school and college years.

I elected the state’s diversion program available to first-time DUII offenders. I had talked to some friends that seemed to know about such things and explained that I probably would “get off” by attending an alcohol education group; I might also have to continue on into a treatment group after that—but that was for “alcoholics.” Surely that wasn’t me.

My court-appointed acohol evaluator took a look at my involvement with Valium and alcohol from the information I supplied and labeled me a “problem drinker,” however. I was stunned. (I had not even been totally truthful about my drinking—and she still thought I had a problem!) I was particularly curious—and disturbed—how my Valium history was linked to my involvement with alcohol.

When I got to the five-week alcohol education group, I was determined to demonstrate my “responsibility” with respect to alcohol use. Although the information presented was quite on-target, I wasn’t able to fully grasp or admit how much of it applied to my own situation. At the conclusion of the group, my stated plan for handling drinking was the goal of controlling it.

When the staff recommendations were discussed on the last day of group, I was stunned. “And, Jim, we advise that you continue for a minimum of six months of weekly treatment group. You can have an appointment with me at 2:00 p.m. next Thursday to discuss what will best fit into your schedule.”

I didn’t really think she could possibly be serious. Was she talking to me?

“What? Just like that you sentence me to six more months? What is this anyway? Why are you doing this to me? Isn’t this negotiable?”

It looked like my stated goal of controlled drinking wasn’t going to satisfy these folks. I thought, Yeah, I know what you want. You want me to say I’ll quit drinking. Well, I don’t need to quit!

I left the group room angrily that day.

But… something was happening here. I was definitely being told that my use of alcohol was much more serious than I had ever admitted. Eventually, days later, my emotions settled down. Could they be right? Was I (gasp) an alcoholic?

I started the treatment group a couple weeks later. The same woman who had facilitated my education group was facilitating the group that fit into my schedule.

What a group!

As we went around for the initial introductions, my assessment was that everyone there had a much more serious problem than me.

I really resent this, I thought.

During the second week of the group I had an individual appointment with the facilitator. She recommended that I spend some time with the psychiatrist on the staff—that maybe he could offer some insights into my situation that I had not considered. I resisted, she insisted. I finally agreed to pay for a quarter hour of psychiatrist time.

Which was a turning point for me in this whole story, I guess.

The doctor I saw turned out to be OK. With my degrees in chemistry and my studies in counseling, I felt that I had something in common with him. He wasn’t there to analyze me; the hour I spent with him turned out to be quite educational and illuminating. I finally was able to listen to explanations about how my body had become dependent on the sedation it had been receiving during all those years of Valium and alcohol. And that I was, as a human being, OK. After all, I hadn’t really set out to become drug-dependent. That’s just the way it turned out.

Oh…

During this meeting and afterwards, I gradually began to become aware that if I wanted to live the way that was consistent with my self-image, I’d have to stop the alcohol altogether. What a realization! I didn’t need alcohol to have a good time—or to cope with life.

During the six months that I attended the group, I became, more or less, its co-facilitator. I became heavily invested in changing my alcohol habit to fit the healthier lifestyle that I had started the year before I’d applied to graduate school as a counselor. And I wanted to assist the other group members in this quest.

Along the way, however, I saw that just about everybody else was stuck back at the stage I had been—not really convinced of their problem. Yes, they said many things otherwise, but not persuasively.

Well, that was their problem. I knew what I wanted to do for me, so I proceeded to do just that. It was clear to me even before the treatment group was halfway over that I needed to stop drinking—totally. None of this Controlled Drinking Thinking. I realized that because of the physical tolerance I had developed I would be back at old levels of consumption if I chose to begin drinking again.

I didn’t want that then. I don’t want that ever again.

Was my treatment group a brainwashing experience? Who knows, maybe it was. To me, it doesn’t matter. What I do know is that my life has been much more fulfilling and manageable since that decision. From what I’ve seen and heard, though, I’ve had a pretty easy time of it—at least with kicking the habit. Once I decided that quitting drinking was the route I needed to go, pretty much all the rest fell into place. I’m not the white-knuckled sober drunk. I haven’t attended the meetings to stay straight. I just don’t drink anymore. Period.

Despite my initial resistance, I feel that I was very gently led into sobriety, and for that I’m thankful. Every person I encountered along this particular journey was understanding and respectful. The police officer, the judge, the alcohol evaluator, the education and treatment group facilitator, the psychiatrist—all treated me extremely well. And all the others in my life have been supportive; what a relief!

This whole experience has led me to a totally new way of living, though the personal issues that led me to substance abuse have cropped up from time to time. My control, my perfectionism, my anger… I continue to work on these and other concerns to try to make my life more manageable.

If I hadn’t had the good fortune to be arrested, I might not be alive today. I’ve come to believe that I was (and am) living in a state of grace. Perhaps, even, with a guardian angel attached. I don’t know how else to explain this outcome. I had driven drunk countless times and who knows what would have been my fate if I hadn’t been allowed to learn all this, in this way.

Zwischenraum

Yes: Zwischenraum. That’s probably a very appropriate term for my life on this New Year’s Day. As I learned from reading The Painted Drum, Zwischenraum is literally “the space between things.” Or, perhaps another descriptor for my existence right now is limbo — “a state where nothing can be done until something else happens.”

Might I be just plain stuck?

I don’t know. I am, all the time, trying to make something else happen.

Well, whatever I am, wherever I am: Here I am.

I am not in a relationship. After seven-plus turbulent years, during which time I experienced repeated rejection and heartbreak, I became unattached again, apparently permanently, last spring. I have been mourning the loss of that relationship, the loss of her, and the dream of being with her, ever since, waiting for a time when I feel I’m healed and that it’s possible to move on. I’m in as in-between a place, relationship-wise, as one can be. I want to be healthier than I am; but, alas, this is what’s going on.

And, I’m in a temporary job. It happens to be a really good temporary job, but it’s a transitional one nonetheless, simply by its designation as “interim.” I am giving it absolutely the best effort I am able, but I feel perpetually unsettled, and not entirely wanted. I have been in this in-between condition professionally for two years now. The Oregon State Board of Higher Education was replaced by the Governor in the fall of 2003, and it became apparent early in 2004 that significant changes were going to be happening in the Chancellor’s Office at the direction of the new Board. So, from late 2003 until the present day, I have been leading a work life fraught with ambiguity, with no place to really call “home” professionally.

At work and at home, for months (or years…how, actually, should I count?) I have felt rejection. And, the job-search process I continue with is, practically by definition, an activity set up to perpetuate this feeling. I experienced another huge rejection two weeks ago as I came in second place in yet another search process.

Sigmund Freud has been quoted as saying that “love and work are the cornerstones of our humanness.” Another quote also attributed to him is “love and work...work and love, that’s all there is.”

If love and work, are, indeed, what defines our existence, then maybe it’s no wonder that I am feeling so off-center. I am not at all solid in either of these life dimensions at the moment, and I don’t know exactly when things will be changing.

But, still, I continue to get up in the morning, displaying a sincere curiosity about what the new day (and, now, the new year) will bring. Life is about the journey, so the saying goes. And, I need to remind myself, as Ram Dass advises, that “it’s all perfect.” I know that I am doing some good in this world, even in this place between things. I know that I am present for others and making some responsible, positive changes around me, despite my Zwischenraum state.

Here is a passage from Ram Dass’ “The Seasons of Our Lives” 1977 speech that I have on an old audio-tape. It is something that I find comforting to refer to in times like these:

But I say to you very simply, and very directly, what happens to another human being in your presence is a function of who you are, not what you know. And who you are is everything that you’ve ever done and all the evolution that has occurred thus far. Your being is right on the line every time you meet another human being. And what they get from you through all the words of love or kindness or giving is very simply a function of your own level of evolution. And the injunction given to the physician “heal thyself,” is right at the mark because we are here to talk about our own work on ourselves, because that is our gift to each other and it’s also what we’re doing here on earth in the first place.

My guru used to say to me, “don’t you see that it’s all perfect?”

The implication of “perfect,” if you want to deal with the concept of God…if I say…“God, what are you doing, why are you screwing up?” …I, who have this little teeny limited vision, mainly controlled by my rational mind, which is a little subsystem of a little subsystem, it isn’t even a very interesting way of knowing the universe, I sit there like this little ant on an elephant and say to him “you really blew it that time.” I say “you really blew it that time” – you know where I say that from? – I’m saying it from my own fear of death…

If I’m attached to you being other than the way you are now, I’m saying to God, “if I had made him, I would have made him different than he is now,” and I forgot my guru saying “don’t you see that it’s all perfect.” What we do for each other is we create a space, by not clinging to models, we create a space that allows each other to do what we need to do…we each have our own work to do in this incarnation.

Yes, I believe that I am doing my work in this incarnation. And, I believe that it is serious work. I simply wish, at times like these, that I had a more profound understanding of this universe and my place in it.

On this day of transition, I ask the universe for the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and the wisdom to know the difference.

Thoughts on Family

I just finished reading Borrowed Finery by Paula Fox. The book is a memoir -- a series of short vignettes, actually -- by the now-aging Fox, author of several novels and children's books. From my perspective, Fox's early life was amazingly difficult, as she was early-on placed in an orphanage and then shuffled in and out of a variety of other living situations...all the while maintaining distant and strained relationships with both of her parents. And her parents! Her mother was cold, detached, unloving. Her father was slightly more emotionally available, but also highly dysfunctional and alcoholic. I find it amazing that Fox survived at all.

I have a 'round-about connection to Fox. (Am I allowed to claim that?) The daughter that she gave up for adoption, and speaks briefly of in the last chapter, is Linda Carroll. Linda is a therapist in Corvallis, Oregon (where I lived for twenty years), and someone I have known for more than a quarter century now. Well, not only have I known Linda a long time, I rank her as just about the most influential person I have ever known in terms of my own growth as a human being. Really, Linda's impact on my life has been profound. She was the one who helped me through a very difficult time in my post-divorce period...and, through the years, has always been at least one step ahead of me developmentally, ready to guide and teach.

Richard Bach has observed that "rarely do members of the same family grow up under the same roof." Linda, ever since our first meeting, has felt as if she is part of my family on this planet. So, I was very interested to read about the growing-up experiences of the person who gave birth to her.

Linda has her own extremely interesting biography...having been given up for adoption, of course, and then finding Fox not that many years ago (the mid 90s) in order to attempt the never-established mother-daughter connection. Further, Linda's own experience as a mother includes having given birth to singer-actress controversial-figure Courtney Love. (And, to extend the story, Courtney's daughter is her child with tragic-rock-figure Kurt Cobain.) Linda's book talking about her life and relationship with Courtney is due out in a couple of months, so I know I'll be among the first to read Her Mother's Daughter.

Potting Soil & Personal Growth

One evening some time back, after I had come home from working out, I crossed the living room to close the drapes and, as I did so, I accidentally knocked one of my largest houseplants off a shelf. The result was a rather huge mound of wet potting soil on my carpet.

“Crap!,” I said.

Along with pieces of jade plant, I started picking up clumps of the soil and putting them all into a shopping bag. It didn’t take too long to see, though, that if I continued very far with this activity, I would be at risk of grinding the wet soil into my lightly-colored carpet, making it all the more difficult to clean up. I paused, thought a minute, and decided that this might be much easier to eventually deal with if the soil were dry, rather than this wet, clumpy stuff. (I’d just watered the plants two days earlier.)

I decided that I’d just wait and let the whole mess air out. And, then, I started to think about my old, old (thirty-plus-years old) vacuum cleaner and how unlikely it would be that it’d successfully help me clean up this mess — even if the potting soil eventually turned into a dry sand. So, it looked like I’d have to do two things: let the huge mound of soil dry for a few days in the middle of the room and look for a new vacuum cleaner.

The next day, when I was out driving, I happened upon a vacuum cleaner store. I stopped in and forty-five minutes later walked out with a wonderful, powerful, new machine. OK: that was the easy part.

The most difficult element of this whole thing, as you might imagine (well, maybe not), was waiting for the darned soil to dry. There it sat, day after day, a huge pile of black dirt in the middle of my light brown carpet, reminding me of my clumsiness and taking away from the perfect order of my at-home world. When messes, disorder and pain occur in my life I want to fix what ever it is. Immediately! I don’t like to leave things unattended; I want to take care of business. But, there it was, every morning when I awoke, every night when I returned home…a mess in the middle of my world. Not even, as things go, that big of a mess, but, simply put, a mess.

When I was away from home, I could pretend it didn’t exist. Out of sight, out of mind, as they say. This ugliness was non-existent, that is until I returned home. Then, there it was again. Waiting for me to ignore. Well, not ignore, exactly, but to leave unattended until it could be properly “fixed.” I tried not to look at the black spot in my life. I averted my eyes. I turned my back. I went for a walk. But, always, always, there it was. A black spot I could not ignore, because, well, it was a black spot!

But, then, slowly, I realized what a good lesson this was. This was a test of patience: a growth experience. This was “a good thing.” I knew that all I had to do was wait and this problem would find resolution. It merely required time. All that was getting in the way was my impatience, my obsessive nature. I recognized that my “fix it now” nature was not the best approach. That sometimes the best thing is to do nothing… at least for a while. “Every mess in its own time.” Maybe that’s what should become my motto, my creed for living, for the new, improved, patient me.

Eventually (it actually only took five days), I was able to clean things up. The new vacuum clearer did a great job sucking up that dreadful black mound of now-dry powder and restoring order and harmony to my living space. To my life.

I am wishing that the peace that eventually came to me in this process had always been with me. I would like to always have been the patient one, the person, who despite small or large life dilemmas, could say… “ah, so…every solution in its own time.” And, “this too shall pass.”

Unfortunately, I’ve been prone to be the fix-it guy. Fix it now or all is lost. If it isn’t fixed now, the world is not perfect, and I want the world to be perfect.

Maybe, though, I’m growing. And I’m glad that I am…living, growing, and evolving. Experiencing what this life is all about. Really. Living.